Grandma Eileen
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: Autobiographical story written about my dying grandma. It doesn't really belong on this sight, so shoot me.


Nicholas: I wrote this five minutes after it actually happened. I'm...I'm slightly depressed right now, so expect that to be reflected in this piece. Everything stated in this is accurate, beside maybe the dialogue. I tweaked that a bit. My great grandma is very special to me, so it I don't even want constructive criticism on this. If you must review, review on how sad it is that Grandma Eileen is dying.

Rating: K plus because it's pretty depressing.

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The hiss of the oxygen was the first thing to reach my ears. There she lay, sleeping on the bed. Well, I'm pretty sure she was sleeping. Her aged, wrinkled eyelids were drawn down over her eyes in a semblance of the warm, safe unconsciousness we know as sleep. Was she dreaming? Was it a good dream? I sat down on the swivel stool by the window and looked at her as she slept on the hospital bed in the room at the front of our house. Her chest heaved up and down with her wheezing breath that told the story of the generations-long-life she had already lived. I just looked at her.

"Hi, Grandma," I muttered, but my throat cracked. There was that familiar tightness in the cavities of my skull and the burning tingle of tears coming to my eyes. I let them fall.

My mom came in then. Silence. It was a heavy, anxious silence filled only with the sounds of the machine on the floor that sent oxygen through the tubes and into her nose. With a sigh, my mom sat down in the lay-z-boy chair near the closet door. I looked back at my great grandma and tears fell again. Over eighty-years of life was there, slowly fleeing the walls and confines of the house, the body they inhabited. My chest clenched and my chin suddenly quivered.

"Maybe…you should sing to her," Mom said, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of the oxygen and wheezing.

That was a good idea, I suppose. She always liked to hear me sing. She'd always listen when I played the piano and hummed or vocalized or sang the words with the melody. Could she even hear? Over the hisses and rasps of breath?

As if reading my mind, Mom nodded and spoke her head. "She can hear you," she stated assuredly. "I yelled in her face to try and wake her up and she reacted."

I laughed quietly, that was something my mom would do. My eyes fell once more to the figure on the bed. My throat was too tight. What should I sing? My nose was getting stuffy. Should it be something religious? Grandma was a Catholic, right? She's still alive, you dummy! Stop thinking with "was"!

I opened my mouth a few times, but nothing came out. My lungs didn't seem to want to work right. 'Remember when she lived in that apartment in San Diego?' I thought, 'you always wanted to sleep on the little couch, even when you were too big. She'd just laugh at your silliness.' And the memories seemed to work. My head started to feel less heavy. 'There you go, happy thoughts. They lift you into the air, right?' I didn't realize it was from Peter Pan until I though it. I looked once more at my grandma's pale face. To die would be an awfully big adventure (J.M. Barrie).

I took at deep breath and my lungs loosened

_I've heard there was a secret chord_

_That David played, and it pleased the lord_

_But you don't really care for music, do you?_

_It goes like this, the fourth the fifth,_

_The minor fall, the major lift_

_The baffled king composing Hallelujah_

I didn't think I'd be able to sing the high part, but I managed to squeak it out. Maybe the high pitch hurt her ears. I held back a bit and let my tone go a little bit airy. I doubted she wanted to hear me sing this bad.

_Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah._

_Your faith was strong, but you needed proof,_

_You saw her bathing on the roof_

_Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you._

_She tied you to the kitchen chair_

_She broke throne, she cut your hair_

_And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah!_

_Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah._

I think I saw her eyes flutter open and I almost lost my tone completely. She could hear me! My eyes filled with salty liquid again and I forgot the words for a moment. I looked at her rosary on the table that we had bought her when we went to Rome. Memories…

_Maybe there's a God above,_

_And all I ever learned from love_

_Was how to shoot at some one who out-drew you_

_It's not a cry you can hear at night,_

_It's not somebody who's seen the light,_

_It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah!_

_Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah._

I could feel the words in my heart now. My voice was foreign to my own ears. Was that really me singing? I'm glad she could hear. She liked when I sang, that's what I remember.

My mom was crying now, I could see it in her eyes. I picked up the little plastic container with the picture of the Pope on it and slid the top off. It smelled like roses. Mommy gave me a strange look when I held it to my nose to take the scent in better. "You expect it to smell, or something?" she asked with a soft, teary smile.

"It smells like roses," I explained. "In Rome they make the beads out of rose petals."

I took out the line of beads and held it before my face for a moment. "Maybe you should put it on her," Mom said, but I couldn't really hear her that well. I was thinking about stuff. She said my name and got my attention. "Just lay it across her chest." The tears in her eyes still hadn't fallen. She was holding one of my stories, ready to read it.

I stood, went to stand directly beside the hospital bed. My grandma was still wheezing, but she didn't seem in pain. I'm glad…I guess…I hope she's not in pain. I placed the rosary across her neck, so that the crucifix fell on her collar. I kissed her old, soft forehead and one more rush of tears surged into my eyes. I needed to get out. I love her, but I could stay in there. My heart hurt too bad.

I went to stand by Mommy. My baby brother Sammy came in, yelling that Robert had hit him. "Well, you probably deserved it," I muttered, trying to lighten my own mood. It worked, but I still needed to leave, so I did. I walked out of the room and glanced back at Grandma one last time before I ran upstairs to my room to write this.


End file.
